The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  My eyes roll toward a sparkling stone set in velvet. It seems to flicker in and out of sight, overshadowed by other images.

  Someone is crying, someone buried deep inside me.

  Yes, the voice weeps. Take care of her. Love her, since I can’t.

  I don’t like the crying. It plucks at the stitches holding me together, threatening to pull me apart, and so much of me has already unraveled. I don’t like it. I want it to go away.

  The man is talking to me again.

  “Don’t give up,” he says. “Please. Come on, kid. There’s so much left for you to live for. Come back to us.”

  * * *

  “I’m trying.”

  My eyes are open, my lips parted, but I can’t tell if I spoke aloud.

  Beside me, Kirit yawns and stretches, his paws rumpling the blankets. He cocks his head at me, little more than a black silhouette against the slightly lighter darkness of pre-dawn. On my other side, Pretty Girl slumbers on, a heavy weight pressed against my back. My eyes flick to Dove’s bed, but she too is fast asleep. It makes me worry: There was a time when the slightest sound or misstep would earn me a sharp glance or a pinch on my arm. But now she lies still and silent as the grave, insensible to my mistakes and the danger they pose.

  I can do better. I must do better, or risk losing my chance to go home. I’ll never see Emily get married. I’ll never play with her children and teach them to dance. I’ll never thank her for doing the same for me.

  Fighting the urge to weep, I raise a hand and scratch Kirit behind the ears. He leans into my hand, offering his chin and neck, and soon my fingers are covered in tufts of fur. By this time Pretty Girl has woken up enough to get jealous of the attention, and she paws at my hand with a whine. Smiling, I pull Pretty Girl closer and kiss her head. Kirit doesn’t protest but curls up in my lap with a small huff.

  I suppose Luca must have sent him to keep an eye on me—probably at Bard’s request. But maybe not. Maybe Kirit’s here because he wants to be. Maybe he’s a friend.

  And maybe Luca is my friend, too. He said he was, the first time we met, and he seems sincere in his desire to help. I nod to myself. I think I can count him among my friends, which brings my total up to four—two of those four are furred, but still.

  I fall back to sleep thinking of Luca.

  In the morning, Kirit is gone, with only a faint musky scent and a dusting of fur across my blanket to give away his visit. I study the fuzz worriedly but then decide that Kirit’s hairs blend in well enough with those left by Pretty Girl. Just to be safe, I shake the blanket out and sneeze as the cloud of fur hits my nose.

  I slip out as quietly as I can to get water from the cistern and let Pretty Girl do her business. When I return, I lay out Dove’s clothes and set her laundry aside with mine. I’ll do both later. Next I sweep the floor, clean the mirror, and pull out the creams and perfumes Ismeni likes us to wear. I wait until the last possible minute to wake Dove, nudging her awake only after I’ve triple checked that there’s nothing else that I can do for her.

  The bones of her shoulder feel frail and almost hollow under my hand, like those of a bird’s wing. I give her the tiniest shake, half afraid that she’ll crumble into dust at my touch. Her eyelids rise slowly, as if even that tiny movement is a hardship. But after a moment, the rest of her follows just as gracefully as ever and I could almost believe that everything is as it was.

  My old life feels distant and pale, like a picture on the wall. I mean my real life, not the mockery of existence that my life has become in the hospital. It takes genuine effort these days to remember that I used to go to school and dance with my friends and talk with Baba Nadia and Emily to plan for my future. Some days I wonder if any of it was real. Perhaps I really am crazy, and it was that other world that was the dream.

  But no. Baba Nadia was real, I know it. How could she not be? No one could dream up a woman like her, so full of love and strength and everything good that I aspire to. And I’m not alone—Bard is from my world, and he’s real. So I’m real, too.

  I breathe heavily through my nose, fed up with my circular, anxiety-fueled thoughts. Yes. I’m real, Bard’s real, everyone’s real. Everything there and everything here, and everything sucks anyway, so who cares?

  Trying not to stomp, I leave Dove with her needle and thread and make my way to Ismeni’s chambers. Pretty Girl trots at my heels, ready to start a new day. I envy her innocence and especially her optimism. It’s like she’s incapable of thinking “today” will be anything but wonderful. I hope that never changes for her.

  I pause outside Ismeni’s door when I hear raised voices. Ismeni’s I recognize right away, but it takes a minute to realize that the other is Orean’s. What is he doing here? He almost never comes to Ismeni’s rooms. If he wants her, he has someone fetch her to him like he’s ordering room service.

  A thrall wouldn’t be put off by yelling—lacking any kind of understanding or social skills—so I can’t be, either. I ease the door open and sidle through as unobtrusively as I know how, keeping close to the wall and pretending I’m not there. It works. Neither Ismeni nor Orean even glances in my direction.

  “Barren!” Orean is apoplectic with rage, his bugging eyes shot with red. They look like they’re about to pop out of his face, which is flushed to a truly alarming shade of purple. “And I had to hear it from the Bloodseer! You thought to keep it from me? I’ll have you flogged for this, you—”

  “I didn’t even know, you fool,” Ismeni shouts back. “He obviously thought you have more right to the information than I do. Or perhaps he thought the news would be less painful coming from my loving husband. More fool he, if so.”

  “Silence,” Orean roars, and deals her a vicious backhanded blow to the face that knocks her clean off her feet. “You will let it be known that you have grown weary of the city and wish to live a quiet life on my country estate. You will get rid of that ridiculous dog and deliver the thrall—the old one—to the House for disposal. The other will be sold. You have two weeks.”

  Orean slams out of the room, leaving Ismeni crumpled on the floor.

  She blinks dazedly and raises a trembling hand to her face. Pretty Girl rushes to Ismeni, her ears pinned anxiously against her head. Her tail wags so hard it makes her whole body wriggle. A pang of jealousy stings my belly as Ismeni gathers my puppy into her arms, but it fades quickly. I can’t begrudge her whatever comfort Pretty Girl might provide. She looks like she needs it, and I think it’s helping. Some color has returned to Ismeni’s face, and her eyes have regained their focus.

  “Hush, sweet girl,” Ismeni croons, but an undercurrent of steel runs through her voice. “That oaf thinks we’re disposable, all of us. And he thinks I’m stupid, or blind, or both. He can believe as he likes—but I’ll be making my own arrangements.”

  * * *

  Ismeni wastes no time in her preparations. That very night, at a banquet held in honor of Princess Arismendi’s eighteenth birthday, my mistress slips away into the labyrinthine corridors of the palace. I follow as closely and silently as her shadow, wondering just what she has in mind.

  She leads me into an unfamiliar wing of the palace where everything looks…no less grand, but maybe more lived in. In spite of my unease at the situation, my skin prickles with curiosity. I’ve only ever been in the public wing with its grand entrance and lavish banquet halls and, once, in the deserted rooms where the king and Ismeni like to spend quality time with each other.

  Ismeni’s pace slows when we reach a door with two guards posted outside. One of them steps into her path with his hand held up for her to stop.

  “I must ask you to return to the festivities, my lady,” he says.

  “Certainly,” Ismeni says with a smile. “But first I must speak with the king.” She sidesteps him neatly and knocks on the door before either guard can stop her.

  “My lady,” they both protest, shocked, but she only smiles her most charming smile and knocks again.

  The door opens.


  “Lady Ismeni.”

  He doesn’t seem happy. In fact, the king looks ready to throttle her. A muscle tics in his jaw and his lips are compressed into a thin white line. But his voice remains cool and light, as if her sudden appearance isn’t anything out of the ordinary. My heart beats faster: Orean speaks softly, too—right before he strikes. What kind of man is the king?

  “My king, I’m sorry, I—”

  Miocostin cuts off the guard’s babbling with a smooth gesture. “It’s quite alright. I was expecting the lady, but it slipped my mind. My mistake. Please, my lady, join me.”

  He steps aside for Ismeni to enter, and she sweeps grandly through with me bobbing in her wake like an acorn in a stream. Miocostin closes the door behind us and turns to Ismeni, his face thunderous.

  “What are you doing here?” he hisses. “Are you mad?”

  “You’re not even a little bit pleased to see me?” she asks, her smile trembling.

  If I could, I’d roll my eyes. Or maybe not. Underneath her charm and bravado, she must be terrified. I would be, in her place.

  Miocostin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Of course I am always happy to see you, my dear. But to come openly to my chambers this way—what were you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ismeni whispers. “It couldn’t be helped. My husband plans to exile me to his country estate. I’m barren, you see.”

  Miocostin’s face softens at the wobble in her voice.

  “Oh, my love.” He crosses to her in two long strides and takes her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she says with a snort. “As a lady of my acquaintance once said, no one deserves to die childless more than he does. But I think—I am certain—he means me to die out there so he can marry again. And I will die, I will—I can’t live without you. I won’t.”

  “Peace,” Miocostin murmurs, stroking her hair. “Of course I won’t allow you to be sent away. You will remain in the palace as my companion. If he can have no heir from you, he has no grounds to deny me. I only wish…”

  “What, my love?” Ismeni looks up at him, her face shining with adoration and relief. “We will be together—what more is there to wish for?”

  Miocostin looks away, almost shyly. “I wish I could give you the position you deserve. I wish you could take your place as my consort—my wife.”

  Ismeni’s eyes widen, then fill with tears. “Oh, my darling,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I don’t need any of that. I only need to be with you.”

  My heart squeezes. Will I ever look at someone the way she looks at him? Will anyone ever look at me that way in return? Probably not, especially now that I’m about to be sold. But does the universe have to rub it in my face by forcing me to see exactly what I’m missing?

  He kisses her forehead. “And so you shall be, my heart. Don’t be afraid. All will be well, I swear it.”

  A sharp knock comes from the door.

  “My king?” one of the guards calls. “It’s time.”

  With a sudden, charming grin, he bows and offers his arm. “Will you allow me to escort you, my lady?” At her confused look, he adds, “I mean to make the announcement tonight. Why wait?”

  Ismeni bites her lip, then shakes her head. “We can’t, my love. Not yet. I must see Cygnet and Dove safely settled first. They belong to Orean, not to me. If I leave their sale to him, they’ll end up as toys in a brothel, I know it.”

  “So sell them to me,” he suggests.

  “And possibly give away our plans?” She shakes her head again. “No. I have a buyer already who will take them both and treat them kindly. The transaction is nearly complete. We need only wait another two days, three at the most.”

  That’s news. Alarm and resentment flare simultaneously. I should be grateful that she cares enough to hand pick a buyer, but the fact remains that I’m hers to sell. The knowledge burns in my chest with an intensity that will never, ever fade.

  “Your kindness does you credit, my love,” Miocostin says, kissing her swiftly. He sighs and smiles down at her. “But I must admit, I am most impatient for your business to be concluded. To have you here, always at my side…I never thought it would be possible. It pains me more than I can say that you will never know the joy of motherhood—of course—but what a stroke of luck!”

  “I don’t care,” she says again. “It’s a price I would pay a hundred times over to be with you.”

  “You must send word as soon as the sale is complete,” he says. “I want you here with me.”

  “Of course,” she promises. “But for now, you must go. Your sister will be wondering where you are.”

  “Bother my sister,” he says, bending to kiss Ismeni again.

  Ismeni laughs and steps away. “Go. You don’t want to hurt her feelings. It’s her birthday.”

  Reluctantly, Miocostin lets her push him out the door. Ismeni waits several long minutes, then beckons for me to follow her and we return to the party. She mingles with the crowd, smiling and chatting as if she had never left, while I hover in her shadow. My thoughts are boiling with questions: Who is this buyer and what will this mean for my plans with the Bird’s Path? Will they still be able to rescue me or am I doomed to remain a thrall forever? Will I ever see Sadra again?

  The thought of being sold tortures me all through the evening and into the night. I’m wild to talk to Sadra, desperately hoping she’ll be able to provide some reassurance but also dreading her answer. I imagine her face filling with pity as she tells me there’s nothing to be done, that it’s over. Or, at best, that I’ll have to wait another season, or perhaps another year, while Bard makes new plans for my extraction. I imagine it over and over, running through every scenario I can think of.

  But when I finally find her in the garden, I’m not at all prepared for her response to my torrent of questions.

  “Oh, that.” She grins, her golden eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s us.”

  “What?”

  “The buyer,” she explains. “She’s with the Bird’s Path. Silly—you didn’t think we’d pass up an opportunity like this, did you? You’re going to Mother Wenla’s counterpart in the City of Lilies. An old lady with old money. Very irritable, I’m told, but very passionate about our work. She finances and facilitates all the—er, activities—in the City of Lilies.”

  “Isn’t the City of Lilies very far away?” I ask, confused. “How did you manage to set this up so quickly?”

  “Her agent happened to be in the City of Roses,” Sadra says. “Good thing, too, or we’d have been in real trouble even if the lady were here herself. Women can’t make business agreements on their own, you know.”

  I shake my head but don’t comment on the Garden’s pervasive misogyny. I already knew this world was cruel and unfair. “And is the agent…one of us?”

  “Yes,” Sadra says. “But more like you than like me, if you catch my meaning.”

  Excitement stirs. Another escaped thrall! Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming about his past than Bard is. Though I understand now, at least a little bit, why Bard doesn’t like to talk about his experiences, I still want to know more about how I came to be here and what others before me have gone through.

  I shake my head again, this time to clear it of the almost painful haze of excitement. Freedom! No more Ismeni, no more petty orders, no more fear, no more…my excitement evaporates as quickly as it came.

  “What about Dove?”

  Sadra squeezes my hand. “Ismeni sold you both. But, Sasha…we can’t save her. The best we can do is make her last days as comfortable as we can.”

  “It’s better than handing her over to the House,” I say firmly.

  No matter how unfair it all is, it’s not Sadra’s fault, and in the past few weeks I’ve accepted the truth. Dove is practically on her deathbed already. She’d never make it.

  “But what about you?” I ask Sadra. “Are you…?”

  Her hand tightens as she shakes her h
ead. “I have to stay,” she says. “It would look strange if I left too. But I’ll see you again.”

  “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know you can keep,” I say softly, my eyes stinging. “You have obligations here. Responsibilities…and loved ones.”

  There’s nothing she can say to that, so she doesn’t try.

  I leave the garden with a storm of conflicting emotions swirling under my skin. Foremost among them is an ache that I don’t have a name for: There’s relief, hope, joy, yearning…and yet the ache is none of these. There are no words, and perhaps none are necessary. But the other feelings…I know their names: grief and guilt, for Dove; anger, for the society that has collectively refused to see the truth; fear, for my future…and envy.

  Jealousy spreads prickles over my skin like a rash, bringing with it a surge of irrational hatred for the faceless man who holds Sadra’s heart. Now that the moment is almost upon me, I can’t imagine leaving this place—not without Sadra. I’ve relied on her entirely, leaned on her every step of the way. Losing a limb would be less debilitating.

  I can’t do it.

  But I’ll have to, because I’m not the only one who has a claim on Sadra. Still a tiny, shrill voice in the back of my head whines that it’s not right, not fair, that I need her more than some faceless man. I’ll beg her to come with me, or I’ll refuse to go. I’ll—

  I stop in the shade of a willow tree, look around, duck beneath the willow’s branches…and slap myself. Hard. I scrub my hands over my face. Take a breath. Slap myself again. It’s too bad Sadra took back her poisoned hairpin, because I could use a shot of mind-numbing pain right about now.

  I am far from composed, but I’m out of time. I arrange my features as best I can and emerge from the willow with my limbs shaking and a desperate prayer running through my head. It’s the same one that has followed me for months, though I’ve almost forgotten it was there:

  Don’t screw up.

  Battement

  I spend the rest of the day nearly jumping out of my own skin, terrified that I’ll let something slip. Ironically, Ismeni seems to fear the same—and with good reason. If Orean finds out what she has planned, he might find a way to ship her off to the hinterlands before the king can step in to prevent it. And, while I’m sure Miocostin would waste no time in retrieving her, who knows what “accident” might befall Ismeni in the meantime?